


Subjectivity

by King_Garbo



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-05-31 08:56:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15116057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/King_Garbo/pseuds/King_Garbo
Summary: Art is hard when all you have is an objective opinion of what you're looking at. What's harder is learning more about yourself through your subjective observations.





	Subjectivity

Art is hard.

 

 

Connor decides this after standing for several minutes doing what everyone around him assumes is admiring a painting on the wall.

No one has disturbed him from doing as much, either out of politeness or because the little indicator on his temple has been hard lining yellow for the past several minutes and every human around him seems to be caught twixt wanting to tell him to move on and investigate the rest of the crime scene like a good Roomba or letting God in the machine become actualized.

Unbeknownst to them, Connor had several operations lined up. One was simply researching the piece. It was made by a modern artist. Kylie Sanders; Mixed medium, produced 2026. Sold for several hundred thousand. He did a search on the tools used and the mediums played with. A mix of acrylics and oils though transposed to the canvas using only sculpting tools.

A very impressive feat.

He was also researching the artist. A political activist who oversaw many human rights movements. She was currently a spokesperson for integration of Androids.

Connor was applying every tool used to judge art. If it followed the methods of design, used good color theory and found the painting to meet every metric needed to be considered 'good'.

"I fuckin hate modern art." The abrasive tones of Hank came to his left, clearly Hank had no qualms about interrupting Connor's potential admiration of Art, a subject many human thought robots would never come to fully appreciate. "You get caught in some feedback loop there Connor or did you forget you were on the clock?"

"Sorry Lieutenant, I got distracted." A half-truth.

"You getting anything out'a this?" Hank nodded, his arms crossed as if expecting something profound out of his partner.

"Not particularly. It's good."

"Oh?"

"In a technical sense yes. The piece is comprised of several mediums and was made using nontraditional painting tools, thus making it-" Hank lifted a hand to stop Connor from going on.

"I don’t need to know the details Connor." he snorted "It looks like someone threw up on a canvas. Knowing how hard it was to make it look like puke doesn't make it any less shitty."

Connor cocked his head at that and turned back to look at the artwork.

"What about it don't you like? Objectively its-"

"A piece of shit, I dunno Connor, I judge art on if I'd want to hang it up in my house, not if it's hard to make."

Connor sat there for a moment and decided that he would praise it should he be asked because it was, objectively good.

 

 

Subjectivity was harder.

 

Subjectivity was an awkward conversation away from the scene as Hank cranked the dial on his car to blast some Death Metal band that Connor had yet to have the... experience of hearing.

Music was a complex topic that Hank had been dragging out of Connor bit by bit. Each time they were in the car, Connor was asked what he'd like to listen to and normally he'd prattle off a title of a band he knew fit in the genre of Metal or Jazz, the two Genres he knew Hank enjoyed.

It might have been, originally a method to ease Hank's placidity in working with him on the deviant case, blindly agreeing on a band to enjoy based on what he'd snooped around for, but at this point it was mostly because it was the only type of music he knew.

"So, you never did say-" Hank called out over the music.

Which was an inefficient way of communicating.

"What about it is you like about meatal."

Connor's mouth opened for a reply, but no words came out.

"Its... complex?" That shouldn't have been a question and he knew it.

"Complex?"

"Complex." Connor quickly adjusted his tone.

"Is that it?" Hank sounded, displeased with the answer.

"It takes a lot of technical skill to produce the songs. I recognize tha-"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Connor, I’m asking if you like it, not if you get that it's hard to play Thunderstruck."

Connor stopped a moment and said nothing, Hank pulled his eyes away from the road to glance at Connor as though he'd shut down on the spot.

"So, you meant to tell me, you've been listening to this because- what?"

Connor was quiet again.

"You gonna spill or what?"

"I.."

"You."

"I originally said I enjoyed the genre as a means to connect with you emotionally." Connor admitted, feeling something coming undone. Admittance as it might have been, knowing that this honesty and truth would undo something he'd crafted.

"Fucked up." Hank grumbled, breaking his eye contact with Connor and glowering at the road.

A silence crossed between them long enough for Connor to look away and instead at the road.

"You feel that way about Sumo?" Hank growled, his fist tighter on the wheel than normal "You just say all that shit to get on my good side?"

"No." Connor protested "No I, I like Sumo."

"Oh yeah? Cause he's peak Dog or-"

"Sumo is actually five pounds overweight and terrible at protecting your home."

Hank glared at Connor in a way that was, different than before, incredulously Connor realized.

"I like Sumo because, he's a good dog?" Connor asked.

"No- firstly, fuck you, Sumo's in perfect health, and second, why don't you tell me wise ass, why DO you like my fat fucking dog?"

Connor paused and was quiet for long enough a time that Hank snorted and abandoned the conversation, deciding to once more be a diligent driver and pay attention to the road.

"He didn't attack me." Connor was quiet and slow to respond.

"What?" Hank asked, forgetting they were indeed talking about something before he'd checked out.

"Sumo. He didn't attack me when I went to help you. I realize now it's because he's, not good as a guard dog, but originally, he didn't attack, he trusted me and... I liked him for that." Connor elaborated.

Hank's grip weakened on the wheel as he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"He's a good boy" mumbling the affirmation to himself. "So alright, here's a fucking quandary then, you like all dogs?"

"Theoretically." Connor smirked.

"Do you like, let’s say a random dog at the park more than Sumo?" Hank asked.

"I... don't think so."

"Why not?"

"Because. I know Sumo."

Hank smirked. "Gotcha..." a tired expression crossed his face and it was one Connor couldn't name.

 

 

Subjectivity and Objectivity are hard to differentiate.

Art and music are hard concepts and he gets, in those moments he's listening to a particular song or looking at a particular piece of art on display in a lobby, why people give him time. Art as he's come to understand it, is meant to affect you emotionally.

It will create a resonance with you based on the value and emotion you put onto it, music is the same, superimposed emotions laced into media in a way to drum up empathy. There's a bitter emotion that pangs in the back of his mind when he finally understands in a deep way what Kamski had spoken about regarding Empathy.

 

 

Art is everywhere Connor also learns after a while and he's also learned to stop trying to look over every inch of it when he comes across it. He has learned on the other hand to re-evaluate things he's come across.

Like his desk.

He had no particular feeling, one way or another about it, or about the terminal that sat on it. He felt no real emotion about the chair or the desk itself as a whole... He did feel a way about Hank's desk though.

Hank is so inefficient it makes Connor want to scream at times. His files were all papers strewn on his desk, all containing the same information that the terminal did, but it had to be put into a document, formatted, printed and delivered to him personally. There was a box of doughnuts that threatened to seep oil onto some sort of important information laying around.

His keys, phone, wallet, glasses and any other personal effects were all laying around in some random order from one day to the next. His pin board was. A disaster and it was so innately Hank that he couldn't help but be both charmed and frustrated all at once.

Connor was also always a good hour earlier than Hank.

Most times Connor would simply clean up Hank's desk, leaving a file of significance out before all the others. He would throw away an empty box of food, as well as several other cans, papers and bags. Organized the files on his desk and put in his locked drawer, his phone and headset.

But today... Today he left it be.

Hank came in 30 later, his hair a mess and scratching at his barely maintained beard.

"Fuckin traffic." He grumbled as some sort of excuse as to his tardiness.

"Actually, traffic was below average in congestion and you-"

"Connor your continued friendship with me hinges on whether or not you decide to finish that fuckin statement." Hank growled as he plopped into his chair, running a tired hand through his hair and pushing aside a pile of food garbage towards Connor's side of the desk.

Connor said nothing but eyed the proximity of the trash threatening to inch over onto his own desk.

"See you know, if you were late and blamed it on traffic, I’d ‘a been like 'oh well shit, sorry to hear that' even if I didn't think it was true." Hank sighed "That's what friends do."

"Lie to each other?" Connor asked, though Hank knew it was rhetorical which made him slightly more irate.

"You know what? Cyberlife fucked up by not making you little shits grumpier in the morning."

Connor smirked at that, returning to his work.

As the day wore on, and their shift came to an end, Connor eyed the desk one last time as he watched Hank toss his keys, and wallet into his pocket, his phone slipping into the other pocket moments later.

It was a disaster, but it was so, uniquely its own thing, that he couldn't bring himself to dislike it.

Kind of like Hank's car, which Connor was piling into to accompany him to a bar for 'bonding time' or whatever excuse Hank could muster up.

Hank's car is a matter all unto its own.

The desk is one thing given that it's simply a work station and Hank is not known for his meticulousness of a space or of himself... But the car is such an amalgam of inefficiency and poor design that is so innately human that it makes Connor's head spin.

There was a laundry list Connor would never admit to having about why he hated the car.

It wasn't a smart car meaning it and Hank's driving were a liability to everyone around him. It wasn't a green car meaning it was an ecological disaster. His speakers were horrible so whatever new rock band Hank blasted over them came out as tinny, grainy and overall terrible sounding. The security on it was simply a standard issue lock with no alarm. It had been in several accidents and it wasn't Hank's car originally.

More to the point there was no reason for Hank to even own so bad a car on his paycheck, meaning Hank owned it because Hank wanted to own it and had no excuse not to upgrade other than he didn't want to, and it was so stupid and so human to decide to do something so useless.

But...

There was a groove in the seat where Connor normally sat now, that fit him perfectly. And he's learned how to position the seatbelt just right over his chest so that it didn't cut into his neck.

There was a charm he couldn't... He couldn't quite figure out.

Maybe because in some ways, it felt like his. It was his indentation, it was his friend's, it was his spot in the car, it was his choice of songs and bands that played next when Hank felt adventurous. It was the spot he'd first heard the band MUSE as well as ACDC.

It was, for how much it was so innately human, and so innately Hank, also so innately Connor now that it was hard to find where those lines ended and began.

It’s in these spaces where Connor finds himself understanding subjectivity.

Objectively, Hank's car was a disaster ready to eventually let out its final plea for its end in the form of a death rattle.

Subjectively, Connor couldn't help but see the charm in it, and he knew that Hank must have felt the same...

Objectively he liked Rock and Jazz because of their technical prowess.

Subjectively he didn't have much of an opinion.

 

 

There are other things that don’t need a subjective or objective opinion for Connor to understand.

A particular case they'd trailed on a suspected murder, was one such moment.

 

 

Connor and Hank stood around the body of a human, old, emaciated, and long since dead, left to be found under an overpass, an android next to her with a hole in its head.

The android, Westley was a companion to Mishell, an HK400 or variant thereof.

The case was fairly open and shut. Mishell's human friend and semi care-taker was worried when Mishell wasn't home and couldn't be reached. Her friend, Glen had called it in as a missing person, but when they'd seen how Mishell was living almost off of a machine, the tubes of medical, life sustaining equipment left dripping on the ground, that perhaps it was something more sinister.

It didn't take long to find the trail left behind from the deviant who stole Mishell from her bed.

"Mother fucker." Hank's voice was soft though, confused, angry, remorseful, shocked, Connor couldn't quite tell.

Connor approached the scene with an even face as he examined them both.

Mishell had died at least a week prior to them finding her. She had no injuries, no signs of trauma or force. One might argue she looked to be at peace.

The android was wrapped around her, his legs on either side of her, and his arms holding her around the middle, his head blown open and hanging limp next to her own. While Hank might not have seen it. there was a bloom of cobalt blue behind them, like a flower greeting the sun after the aches of winter.

In Westley's hand was a slip of paper. Connor reached out to take it, and read along the line, the URL, username and password to a website. Loading it up it was a single page to a private blog that read simply.

 

  _I didn't want to die in a bed. I didn't want to live locked away. I was wild and angry and dangerous even when my body no longer complied. Westley was a gift, in more way that I can express, and I begged him to remove the pins from my wings. I loved him, and he loved me and it's not my wi to convince you or the world. I wanted him to hold me one last time._

_West knows I’m a woman of few words. He'd have written something much more poetic and human in a true twist of irony. If... He's still here, please take the best care of him. He's... fragile._

_Glen knows where my will is._

The impact of the situation hits Connor with such a force that his LED blasts a red color for a solid five minutes. No soft beep to warn of impending damages, nothing more than a hurt, a damage he doesn't understand.

He doesn't need to.

This woman wanted to die in the arms of the man she loved, and he didn't want to go on without her. Android or not... The thought of living without her cause him to shut himself down.

"I mean humans are a sack of shit but… for some android to off and haul this kinda shit is-"

"It isn't a homicide Lieutenant Anderson." Connor's voice strains in a way he couldn't stand.

"What's this now? Connor you-" Hank approached and saw the red LED, saw the tears that strained down Connors face and the quick attempt to rid them from his cheeks at Hank's approach. He stopped just behind him and looked over the woman, looked the droid over and looked at Connor confused, but, reluctant. "You... uh. You got... a reason for that claim?" Hank's words were soft, but steadfast. He didn't want to push Connor, but this was a case, and this was a dead person and he could only trust his own eyes so far. A blip on his phone though, lead him to the blog, now made public by Connor.

Silence passed like a breeze between them as they both processed the end of their trail.

There is no meaning hidden in personal experience, there is no need to look between the lines. The case is open and shut and Hank helps sooth Glen over when they deliver the news. Connor writes the report from the car and together they drive home, Connor's body cradled by Hank's terrible seats, in silence back to the office.

 

Two days later and they're both sitting at a bar.

 

Hank has in his hands a whiskey; a drink Connor sees that Hank is rather fond or familiar with. It's spilled a little on the table he's shuffled into, pushing the table a bit towards Connor to make sure he's comfortable at it.

Hank isn't fond of this bar, Connor knows, but he's less fond of the looks he gets with Connor with him at the other bars.

"So." Hank starts, his fingers roaming the bottom of the tumbler. "Didn't know uh, that you guys had some of the expressions you did." the words are awkward and clunky, a conversational disaster trying to dance around a subject, Connor picked up.

"I've told you before, we're programmed and made to make humans more comfortable around us." Connor reiterated.

"Yeah I mean- yeah..."

"As a matter of fact, early model androids were perfectly symmetrical in their face and body, which caused humans to be put off, as very few humans have perfect facial symmetry. Because of this Cy-"

Hank's hand raises to shut Connor up before long.

"I don’t need a history lesson Connor." He takes a sip of his drink and hisses a bit afterwards, "I meant I just never seen uh... You know" his hand comes up around his eyes and makes a circle.

Connor's LED turns yellow a moment before finally he perks up and nods.

"You mean crying?"

"Yeah... Yeah never seen one of you guys cry."

"It's a deviant behavior." Connor's tone is far icier than he intends, and he wondered for a moment if Hank could pick it up.

Hank just eyed him a moment and shrugged.

"Yeah we just call that human behavior normally."

"Well, given androids aren't humans, it's typically considered a deviant behavior." Connor punctuates.

"Right, right, but you are a deviant so it's a normal behavior at this point."

Connor's LED slips straight to a red color before it turns blue only a second later. Self-actualization, integration, self-identity outside of his primary objective and design are things Connor's been avoiding.

"Sure." Connor adds again, coolly.

Hank just appraises Connor for a moment and shrugs.

"Fine." Hank finished off the rest of the drink and smirks at Connor afterwards "Can I ask you a personal question Connor?" mocking Connor's tone as he asks.

"What an unorthodox approach." Connor smirked "A means to learn about your partner?"

"God you know this is why I don't fuckin talk to you on off hours." Hank jabbed "You're a fucking smug ass prick when you want to be." there was a smirk on his lips regardless "Look jagoff, what the fuck is it you do after hours?"

Connor paused a moment "I... usually stay at the office."

"Yeah I mean that's the thing you're in before I am and after I am... What do you do with your time off?"

"I work."

"What you just... Work constantly? Don't you need to like, recharge or something?"

"Yes... I just do so at my desk, normally on night shift."

"So, you don't, what just fuck off in a park or something?"

"No? I take walks when I feel like it I suppose..."

"Jesus Christ, Connor!"

"What?!" Connor's light shifted hue once more as his whole face seemed to express a kind of discomfort at being scrutinized for his day-to-day. "It's no different from your own activities as far as I understand."

"I at least walk my dog and, go to bars man." Hank shot back "Look..." he rubbed his face a bit, a tired but warm expression crossing over it.

"Listen. How’s this. I got shit to do and I could use the company." Hank shrugged "I don’t normally. But therapist'n all that shit..." he grumbled.

Connor smiled, glad that Hank actually took him up on the notion of at least talking to the DPD's work therapist. "Says I should socialize more an, I don’t hate you followin me around as much as I thought. I walk Sumo once a day after work... You wanna come or?"

Connor smiled. "I'd love that."

 

 

Walks with Sumo don't take a lot of self-examination either.  
Objectively they're great for Hank and Sumo both, given their extra body weight, and subjectively, Connor enjoys forgetting himself in those moments, and having something to talk about that's wholly his and not some branch from a tree planted into his conversational mind he didn't exactly ask for.

 

 

Hank at first wouldn't let him hold the lead, instead piling Sumo into the car, driving to an off-the-leash park and just letting him go wild. After a few weeks though, Connor more often than not is the one holding the lead as they walk around a park or around town.

It was after a particular adventure of getting Sumo from the house to the car that ripped the lead from Hank's hand. Connor grab it a few seconds later and locked himself up to brace for impact. He was able to hold his own against the massive dog.

"Well shit..." Was about Hank's assessment and Connor made a point not to point out that he indeed almost got knocked over himself.

The walks are always a delight for Connor. Hank usually complains about Fowler and how he had every right to retire even at the age of 53, only to go on a rant about the economy of a bygone era. Connor mostly listens and learns. He learns about Hank's childhood and he learns about Sumo when he was a puppy.

Connor's happy to listen and adds his own conversation, pre-designed responses he fights very hard to use since he has no actual experience. Hank and him whittle down some things for Connor to do with his new found individuality, like going to a movie or fishing or reading a book. Maybe go to an arcade or something. Connor's honest with Hank in these moments, when his own defenses are down. Admitting a feeling of unsureness, lack of direction.

"Everyone your age feels that way" Hank teases and Connor's quick to pick up the sarcasm.

Walking is simple and easy, and it takes nowhere near the amount of analyzation that Art does. It is, as it is, nice.

"You always in uniform?" Hank asks one day, wearing his own graphic tee and some very old jeans.

"What do you mean?" Connor looked down at his own clothes.

"What else the fuck could I mean Connor, look at you, you look like my parole officer. You got anything else you wear?"

"No,"

"What happened to your clothes from the whole-"

"I changed." Connor cut him off.

Hank was quiet for a bit and shrugged.

"Fair enough." even when it was obvious it wasn't. His eyes wandered to the LED which was turning from yellow to blue.

There was a private smirk that he made no mention of before following Connor and Sumo along on their walk.

"Don’t think I haven't noticed you adding an extra yard to each walk we go on." Hank grumbled.

"I would think that would have been obvious after about the third walk." Connor chimed.

"Pretty sure you weren't asked to add an extra fuckin yard to each walk." Hank said.

"I figured I'd take the initiative since you seemed uninterested in maintaining a healthy exercise routine."

Hank gives Connor that incredulous look that Connor is finding himself more and more fond of being the source of.

"You know what?" Hank asked, a harmless bite to his tone.

"I get the feeling you're about to tell me."

"Fuck you."

"There it is." Connor chuckled.

At the end of the walk, Sumo is laying on the ground under a park bench while Hank is resting against said bench, grumbling and relaxing.

"You going back to the office after this?" Hank asks off handedly.

"That was the plan" Connor admits, running the lead's grip along his fingers. Nylon, and further down the line polyamides. It's black.

"You wanna crash at my pad?" Hank offers the same way you might offer the last bite of a meal you weren't sure you wanted to share. It was aloof and nonchalant.

"Do... you need me there?" Connor asked, doing a scan of Hank. Checking blood pressure, heart rate, temperature, anything he could from a simple glance.

"No just, you know if you wanted to crash on my sofa or some shit. This offer aint for my own health and happiness. It's for you, take it or leave it, no skin off my nose." Hank grumbled.

"Oh. Well..." Connor considered it for a moment "I guess I don’t have a reason to refuse."

"Don’t sound too excited." Hank snorted.

"Sure. I'll stay with you tonight then." Connor smiled.

 

 

Subjectivity becomes a little less of a complex topic to grasp when it comes to Hank. Factually speaking, Hank was entirely subjective in Connor's eyes and it was painfully obvious in these most recent months.

 

 

The hoodie that Hank tossed at Connor the second time he stayed over is too baggy for Connor. It’s got a hole on either side of the sleeve’s cuff for a thumb, but they were _certainly_ not part of the original design for the jacket. There’s a faded image of the Detroit Police Department’s logo on the front, the bottom cording is loose and torn in some spots and the hoodie itself is threadbare in the elbows.

But Connor loves hanging up his jacket, his shirt, tie and pulling the hoodie on over top of his standard T-shirt. It’s not that it’s more comfortable, since discomfort isn’t something he’s exactly sure he feels outside of emotionally or intellectually, but it does somehow feel in a way he isn’t sure he can explain, comfortable.

The sofa is the same way. Hank never told him where his spot was on the sofa, but Connor has one. Hank has his own spot too, so does Sumo (even if Hank insists that Sumo doesn’t belong up on the sofa) and between the three of them, they watch TV and movies or listen to some album. Together they try and make a point to not talk work. Hank’s not normally conversational, but he tried to drum up something for Connor to talk about.

The kitchen is unused. Hank once asked Connor to make dinner, Connor in theory knew how to cook but it was a disaster.

“How the fuck does someone who’s literally connected to the internet by nature, not YouTube how to make a decent grilled cheese, is beyond me.” Hank snorted at the mess of soggy bread, sweaty un-melted cheese and a melted spatula.

“In my defense” Connor hissed, trying to keep his irked attitude in check “YouTube is an obsolete video hosting service and I was _designed_ to analyze crime scenes, not cook. I’m not some AP700 or AX400 model Hank. Cooking wasn’t exactly considered one of the necessary tools for solving a case.”

“Huh” Hank smirked “Yeah sounds about right, a robot made for policework by some fuckboy who’s never even spoken to a cop.”

“How exactly would cooking assist in any way to a- “

“You ever heard of company cook offs?” Hank’s smirk was coy as he shrugged “It’s fine, I know a pizza place that’ll fix this.”

Hank’s yard isn’t up for discussion Connor learns once when commenting on exactly _how_ dead it was.

But above all, Hank tries to strip parts of Connor away that Cyberlife had built up. Hanks always makes a point to ask Connor how he likes a film, what he likes about it and so on. He also asks what his favorite quote is each time and Connor knows this tactic, it’s to help someone find themselves from a rhetoric and instead start to build their own library of likes and dislikes.

Connor can never tell if Hank is an idiot; like when he asked Connor where the fuck his phone was while he had his headphones plugged into it. Or if he’s a secret genius; like when he changes the channel of the news whenever more information on Human Android relations continue to be tense. Or when he complained the entire time Connor struggled getting a pair of bagged pjs from a local retail store but keeps them folded on the edge of the sofa whenever Connor follows him home. Of which Hank has been offering more and more.

There is an emotion tied to Hank that Connor is terrified to investigate, and maybe, someday he will, when he can sit and look at himself in the mirror and see himself as the self, and not the extension, when he sees himself as a wholly realized individual and not simply a series of complex code meant to get a job finished…

But Hank is a disaster that Connor cherishes. Hank snores so loud it’s interrupted his sleep mode, and for all of a second Connor was under the impression there was some sort of alarm going off or- he wasn’t sure what, till he followed the noise to Hank and found the man, face down in his bed, drooling just slightly on a pillow, hair a mess, sumo laying along his lower back, sprawled out. It wasn’t till Connor showed Hank a video of him doing it, that Hank believed he snored.

Hank is rough around the edges and abrasive, but Connor is smug and sarcastic so really, he can’t fault him for some coded in bad behavior. Hank is not at all the perfect person, wearing clothes that weren’t even in fashion when he was in his 20’s, overweight and as old as he was. Hank is not even a candidate for what most might consider a good partner, romantic or otherwise.

 

 

Subjectivity is coming easier, even when in its revelations, the truth about himself, was hard to accept.

 

 

It’s late at night, sitting on the sofa in Hank’s spot when Hank was sleeping in the other room, that Connor feels his whole chest come apart. He shakes while he understands all at once why the robot and his master… No, that was incorrect, why the two lovers under the bridge caused him to cry.

Why those same tears seemed to threaten to roll down his face now.

Empathy and realization came like a wave that consumed him in that moment.

Sumo, thudded to the ground, tapping across the hall and loped his way onto the sofa, putting his head, heavy and massive, on Connor’s lap.

 

______

 

Hank rouses them both awake that next morning and before Hank can even react, Connor pulls him into an embrace, one Hank returns slowly enough.

All at once, in a wordless moment, they understand each other, and accept what the other is offering with a silent but resounding;

 

Yes.


End file.
